Snapshots in Time
by claraowl
Summary: "I miss you. I love you. I want you." Such simple denotations for such complex words. A Hermione-centric story, spanning from her childhood to her adulthood, focusing on the many different ways those three sentences can be used. Romione in the later chapters, friendship, rare glimpses of Hermione's family, missing moments, introspection, angst, and a sprinkling of humor.
1. Youthful Thoughts

**Claraowl: Hello, again! Welcome to my 50****th**** posted fanfic!**

**Yes, 50****th****! I'm very happy about this, and wanted to make it a romione as near to perfection as I could. That is my excuse for taking so long, however feeble it may be.**

**I'd like to send a million thanks to those who read chunks and gave me their opinions – and a zillion thanks to Hailey, who was my sounding board throughout this entire process and was kind enough to deal with my questions during Spanish class. Frankly, I'm surprised that she's still talking to me after that much pestering.**

**Also, no matter how much I beg, plead, and cry, I do not own **_**Harry Potter**_**. *sniffles* Sad, isn't it?**

**Thank you for dropping by to read this – I hope you enjoy it!**

_I miss you. I love you. I want you._

Hermione was four years old, sitting on her bed and bawling; she'd left her stuffed cat, Chessie – named after the Cheshire cat – at her grandparents' house, and couldn't sleep without him. Her parents tried to calm her, saying that he was with her, if not physically; she had any number of pictures of them together on her photo-wall. She sniffed, protesting that it wasn't the same. Her parents hugged her, saying that they'd go get Chessie back for her tomorrow. _I miss you, even if it's just for tonight._ She rubbed her eyes, upset and sleepy, and whispered, "Promise?"

"We promise," they had assured her, tucking her into bed. Her mother nestled a stuffed owl next to Hermione's head while her father moved one of the pictures containing Chessie down to eye level.

"Won't Chessie be lonely without me?" _I love you. Please stay safe._ "Will he be okay?"

"He'll be fine," her father soothed. "He's probably playing cards with your Granddad and Gran right now."

"I bet Granddad's winning again," little Hermione yawned, hugging her stuffed owl, Bill – named after the youngest owl in _Owl Babies_.

"I bet he is," her mother smiled. "What story would you like tonight?"

"A chapter from _Alice in Wonderland_," came the quick reply, "the one where she meets Chessie." Her mother had smiled, and complied; afterwards, her father sang her a lullaby. They then kissed her goodnight, and shut off her light. She stared up at her ceiling, the glow-in-the-dark stars reflected in her eyes.

"Chessie, please be okay," she murmured, floating on the hazy edge of sleep. _I want you to come home. Please be okay. I need you._

The next day, she and Chessie were reunited. Hermione beamed, gripping her beloved cat tightly, as her grandparents informed her of her cat's many exploits the previous night – including losing to Granddad at cards.

_I miss you. I love you. I want you._

She was six, bouncing excitedly on the balls of her feet as her mother and father walked her up the path to her cousin's house for her first-ever sleepover. It was her parents' wedding anniversary, and her Aunt Em and Uncle Joe had volunteered to watch Hermione for the night. Hermione, of course, had little idea of what was going on outside of the fact that she got to spend the night with her cousin, Ailsa. This, naturally, excited the young girl – she idolized her cousin; not only was the elder girl an expert on all things faerie, but she was also the reason that Hermione had started taking dance lessons. Ailsa was in secondary school, and was looking into dance as a career. Although they rarely got to see each other, the two cousins were very close; during the family gatherings, Hermione followed her cousin around like a puppy. Ailsa had done the same thing to an older female cousin, as had that cousin to another cousin – it was something of a tradition in their family, after all. _I've been waiting to see you for so long. I miss you when we're not together. _Hermione bounced some more, and repeatedly poked the doorbell with three fingers, just in case Ailsa couldn't hear it.

It was Ailsa who opened the door and swept young Hermione into a tight hug as Mrs. Granger beamed behind her. Hermione, of course, began a long series of babbles about what was going on in her life; Ailsa asked questions in return after greeting her aunt and uncle with hugs (their side of the family was, after all, a very friendly people). Mr. and Mrs. Granger then – after spending some time happily chatting with Mrs. Granger's sister and brother-in-law – bade Hermione goodnight, saying that they'd come pick her up in the morning and telling her to be good. Hermione promised to be on her best behavior, and hugged her parents tightly. She was both nervous and excited; nervous for a night without her parents, but excited for a night with her cousin, aunt, and uncle.

After her parents had left, Hermione followed Ailsa up to the older girl's room. Hermione stared, wide-eyed, around at the posters and sketches that plastered the walls, and the worn-out point shoes tacked to the sides of the bookcases. Her eyes took these in, and her gaze then lit upon the various statuettes and miniature sculptures that were scattered throughout the room at odd intervals. Ailsa grinned, leaning against her doorframe as her young cousin danced around her room, exclaiming over the decorations. She laughed as the young girl halted, transfixed, before the latest addition to the collection.

Hermione's breath caught in her throat. She hadn't seen anything so – what was that new word Mum had taught her? – captivating ever before. A chill swept through her body, and she visibly shivered. This statuette had captured her imagination; it was almost as if it breathed… rather, as if its two inhabitants breathed. A rustle of fabric alerted her to her cousin crouching down next to her.

"Do you like that?" Ailsa smiled, indicating the faerie and dragon statuette with one carefully painted fingernail.

Hermione nodded, speechless for the first time in her young life. _It's amazing. She looks like she should be a villain, but that little dragon is looking at her so trustingly. It's cuddled up to her like she's its mum. _Her heart fluttered, and she tentatively reached out to touch it, glancing up at her cousin for permission. When Ailsa nodded, the young Hermione carefully stroked first the dragon's, and then the faerie's wings. _I love you,_ she realized, her fingers tracing the contours of the statuette. _Will you let me see you breathe, like Ailsa is saying that you do when no one's looking? Will you let me in on a bit of magic?_ She turned to her cousin, eyes sparkling, and requested more information about faeries. Ailsa, grinning widely at the chance to be able to share her obsession with her young cousin, expounded upon the traits of faeries.

Hermione was a logical child, and looked at things analytically… but now, as her cousin explained the finer points of faeries – the traditional type, not those airheaded, flower-wearing morons – she realized that some things just did not fit in the regular world. Some things could not be explained with the knowledge she now held. There must be something more, a deeper meaning – there must be some other world, some magical world, that was yet hidden from her eyes. A spark was born, somewhere deep inside her heart; she wanted to exist in such a world – she needed to find it and know it to be truly real. _I want you to let me find you. I want – need – to live somewhere where all this insanity is explained. _

"Is something wrong, Hermione?" Ailsa inquired, noting her cousin's uncharacteristic silence – until moments previously, the young girl had been interrupting every other sentence with one complicated question or another about the faerie world.

Hermione shook her head, grinning. "What about the Seelie court? They're in charge of spring and summer, right?"

"Yup!" Ailsa grinned, pulling her cousin into her lap. "The Unseelie court is in charge of fall and winter. Do you remember the days that the rule switches?"

"The summer and winter solstices, right?" she returned, giggling.

"Correct!" Ailsa proclaimed. "For that, I'll give you a treat."

Hermione snapped her head up. "Do I get to try on one of your recital costumes?"

"If you wish, then by all means, yes," Ailsa grinned, sliding Hermione off of her lap. "Which one do you want to try on?"

"The elf one!"

The older girl grinned, and pulled the leafy elf costume out of her closet. "Hey, Hermione," she whispered, crouching down confidentially as the younger girl started to pull on the leaf-decorated leotard, "I discovered something interesting yesterday."

"What is it?" the younger girl inquired chirpily, spinning in the recently-donned elf costume.

"Your name means 'messenger' or 'earthly,' and mine means 'elf victory.' So together, we're the earthly messengers of elfin victory!" she exclaimed, watching her cousin's reaction to this news.

Hermione gasped happily, "We can tell everyone about faeries, and help them know the reality of magic!"

Ailsa nodded. "Remember: Magic is real, even if most people can't see it. We need to bring it to them."

Hermione offered her hand; Ailsa shook it. The two girls then went out for a walk, Hermione still garbed as an elf, to spread the news of magic to whomever they came across in the small neighborhood.

Hermione, even during the complex years of primary school, never quite stopped believing in magic; rather, her desire for its reality only grew in the years to come.

_I miss you. I love you. I want you._

An eight-year-old Hermione sighed, her cheek propped against her knuckles. She rolled her eyes in frustration as – for what seemed like the twenty-seventh time, but was really only the twelfth – one of her classmates asked the teacher to repeat how to solve the current math problem. The young, bushy-haired girl – utterly bored – doodled absently on the inside cover of her notebook, continuing the intricate pattern that she'd been working on for the past four periods – she'd already finished the class work, of course, and had finished the book she'd brought that morning. She sighed again, this time fondly, as she thought of the thrill that had come from reading it for the first time. _There's nothing quite like reading an excellent book for the first time,_ she mused, sketching the final symbol from the book series into its place on her notebook cover. She set down her pencil and brushed her fingertips over the binding of the book in question, which was tucked safely inside of her desk. _I miss you, but it'll never be the same. I'll re-read you, of course, but the thrill will be different. _The bell rang; this time, she sighed in relief, putting away her school things, grabbing her book, and swinging herself out of her chair to go meet her two friends on the playground.

"Evie, you were right. It's an exceedingly excellent book," she grinned, having found her pale friend sitting beneath the schoolyard's lone tree. The other children on the playground gave the twisted elm a wide berth, so it had become their haven over the years.

"And you didn't think that you'd like it," Evie Dubois smirked, twisting one of her blond ringlets around her finger. "Aren't you glad that I made you read it?"

"Exceptionally, Evie," the brunette laughed, plopping down next to her – only to elicit a slight 'oof' from what she had thought was a tree branch, but proved to be someone's arm.

"Watch it, will you?" Ethan, Evie's older brother, grumbled, sitting up and dislodging Hermione's perch.

"Maybe you shouldn't lie on the ground like a dead frog," Hermione suggested kindly, giggling.

"Have you seen a lot of dead frogs?" Ethan inquired, distracted.

"No," Hermione admitted, "but I have read a bit about them."

"You read such cheerful books when I don't suggest stuff," Evie noted sarcastically.

"You know what they say – 'Truth is stranger than fiction,'" Hermione countered.

"Who are 'they,' anyway?" Ethan asked, sprawling on the grass again.

"Er… grown-ups?" Hermione suggested; Evie nodded enthusiastically in agreement.

"Going back to the subject of the book that I suggested," the blond girl giggled, now playing with her brother's bangs for the pure purpose of irritating him, "what was your favorite part?"

"I really liked the tension," Hermione grinned, "especially when the main character had to figure out that puzzle in such a short time. I'd like to be like her!" Her gaze floated off to the treetop as Evie replied, her words suddenly lost to Hermione's ears. _Such a strong, smart girl character… could I ever be like her? _She absently plucked a blade of grass, shredding it with her fingers. _I love your character, and I love the things you do – I love you, but I'd love to be like you even more. What would I have to do to be the main character of my own story?_

"Earth to Hermione," Ethan called, sticking a blade of grass up her nose. Hermione started violently, waving her hands madly about. The bit of grass stuck where Ethan had put it, sending the Dubois siblings into peals of laughter. Hermione, giving in after removing the vegetation from her nostril, joined them in laughter. The main character in her book had always been very open with her friends; that was one thing that the two of them had in common. Hermione sat up abruptly, clenched her fist, and nodded. _I've set my sights on her level – on _your _level. I'll catch up to you, just you wait. I want you to know that I've accepted your challenge… and nothing is going to stop me from being every bit as strong as you._

"You're thinking about the main character, aren't you?" Evie grinned. "You've just taken the challenge at the end of the book, right?"

Hermione nodded. "Did you?"

Evie winked. "I'll race you to see who gets there first!"

"You're on!"

"Wait, where are we racing?" Ethan cried, jumping to his feet excitedly. The two girls looked at each other, laughed, and got to their feet – then, without any warning to Ethan, dashed off toward the flagpole. The blonde boy gave a strangled yell and gave chase, and the three ran, laughing, all the way there.

_I miss you. I love you. I want you._

It couldn't be true; she, age ten, refused to believe it. Granddad couldn't be gone – sure, he'd been sick for a little while, but it wasn't anything serious. She couldn't be here, looking at a lifeless corpse lain out before the cremation in two days – it just wasn't possible. "Granddad, wake up." She touched the side of his face softly, hoping that he would sit up and laugh, happy to have tricked everyone for so long, but he did not stir; his skin was cold, lifeless. Tears stung her eyes. She'd never again see his smile, never hear his laugh. _I miss you already, Granddad. Come back, please, come back!_ Her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the ground, sobbing. It couldn't be true – she refused to accept it.

Two days later, her heart broke afresh as her mother, tears streaming silently down her face, placed Granddad's urn on the mantelpiece. _No. _There it was, the irrefutable proof. _No._ Even if he had been alive, the flames would have reduced him to ash; unbidden images burst into her mind, coupled with imagined screams of agony. Her mind likened burning flesh to the scent of the burnt, blackened marshmallows that Granddad had so loved. _No. I love you, Granddad; you can't have died. You're too tough._ One of the constants in her life, gone forever.

She sniffed, plopping down onto the carpet and staring at what had once been her Granddad, her champion. She needed him in her life; how could she go on without his smile? _I want you to still be here, Granddad. Please, please come back._ She'd put her head on her knees and cried; her mother and father joined her on the carpet, and the three mourned together. That night, her Granddad's picture was moved to her eye level next to her bed, to be joined half a year later by that of her Gran. Her heart, Hermione knew, had never been the same after the death of her husband. Tracing their faces in her copy of their wedding photo, Hermione wished that someday she might love someone that much, and be loved that much in return. For now, she would grieve.

_I miss you. I love you. I want you._

September first seemed too far away; she thought that her head might burst from the stress of waiting. That world… how could she have lived so long without knowing it? It all made sense to her, now – all the strange happenings, all the bizarre occurrences – everything had fallen into place. How had she survived without knowing world – that amazing, wonderful, utterly _magical_ world – for so long? She'd only had a taste of it, just the barest flavor, the previous Saturday, when she'd been taken to Diagon Alley, but she already yearned for it. Come to think of it, she had probably yearned for it her entire life. _I barely know you, but I already miss you. Please… please let this actually be real, and not another fantasy from some wonderful book._

She'd always been a little out of place in – what had Professor McGonagall called it? – the Muggle world; of course, she'd had a couple of friends, but she'd been an outcast most of the time. They'd caused her to lose control of what she now knew to be her magic, and had cast her from them like a filthy sock. Now – if she wasn't imagining things, like usual – she would actually be somewhere where she was normal. This world, this culture… it would _accept _her, treat her like any normal young girl. _I love you already. Please don't be my imagination playing tricks on me again._

A thought struck her; what if normal wasn't good enough? What if this world, this wonderful, marvelous, fantastical world, decided that she wasn't special enough, and cast her aside as _they_ had, before she'd met Ethan and Evie? She didn't think that she could handle that again… she needed to learn as much as possible about this world, so that she wouldn't be disposed of, not again. _I want you to accept me. I promise that I'll work my hardest – please just don't cast me out again._ She pulled back her hair, opened _Hogwarts: A History_, and began to prepare for her future.

_I miss you. I love you. I want you._

Nothing – absolutely _nothing_ – had changed. Yes, she was in this wonderful, bizarre world, but she still wasn't accepted. What had she done wrong? Had she learned _too_ much about this world? Had she expected too much? Her head fell into her hands, the breeze from the window playing with the hangings on her bed. _Evie, Ethan – I miss you. You were the only real friends I had, and now I can't even talk to you._ All those years, the three of them had played and danced together – how could she have not realized how precious that time was? She had always had friends, two wonderful friends, but she had been worried about the others, the ones who whispered behind her back. What a fool she had been – how could she have taken all of that for granted?

And now... she had no one. She was completely alone; she didn't know how to approach her dorm-mates, however nice they might seem; she'd been taken in and tossed aside too many times before. But Evie… Evie had been her most sacred confidant and her most dependable book recommender. Ethan had been her dance partner and her most trustworthy ally. How she longed to see either of them, to tell them how much she missed them… how much she needed their friendship, the siblings she had never had…. _Please hear me, Evie, Ethan. Please know that I'm thinking about you, that I love you. _She pulled herself up and threw open her curtains to face her dorm-mates – and saw an empty room.

_I want you here, with me._ She was lonely, heartbroken; how could anyone in her situation not be? Yes, she was in the world that she had longed for, learning things infinitely more interesting than anything she would have studied in the Muggle world – but she was completely, utterly alone. And the worst part? She could never tell her two dearest friends everything, could never keep them as close as they had been. Picking up her books, she picked up the pieces of her heart and glued them into a strong façade. She paused for a moment, looking at her internal, shattered mirror… and then opened the door, and walked down to breakfast.

_I miss you. I love you. I want you._

It was all so dark… all so very dark. What had happened? Was this death? Had the mirror not worked – would those yellow eyes be the last thing she ever saw? No; this couldn't be death; there must be something besides darkness in the afterlife, and she could feel something… something warm. What was that? A blanket? She struggled to open her eyes – only to realize that they were already open. Had she been able, she would have screamed; she had no control, and no way to tell what was going on, nor how much time had passed. If she could not tell what was happening, then how could she ever have a chance of getting back to her old self?

Slowly, though, she grew accustomed to it – and that scared her even more. Was she growing complacent? No – that was unacceptable. She would not grow complacent; for if she did not fight to regain her consciousness – if she did not fight for her life – she would wither away. If she did not regain her previous life, then… well, what would she have left? Had she been able to, and had her pride allowed her to, she would have succumbed to tears; if her future was to be nothing but a blank darkness, then she'd rather not have one. Nothing but darkness… she yearned for light, for sight of anything at all. _I miss you; I can't live like this._ She could not spend her forever in darkness… darkness?

Darkness… darkness was, by definition, the absence of light. For it to be dark, there must be the possibility of light. Therefore, if light were a possibility, then so must be a return to her previous life – but how? She considered her options, pulling up a mental diagram of her body. She had been holding the mirror, last thing she knew; if she were not dead, then this must be petrification. Perhaps she could manipulate her body mentally, or somehow rub life back into it from within? Normally, victims of petrification could only be cured through the use of mandrakes, but she might as well attempt to help herself. It wasn't like she had anything better to do while she was trapped in the confines of her own mind – the mandrakes wouldn't be ready for stewing for some time, after all, and she really couldn't count on anyone finding the paper in her hand.

Several days (or weeks, it was impossible to tell in her situation) later, however, she was mentally sighing in frustration. She had tried everything that she could think of trying, but to no avail: the darkness still surrounded her, immobilizing and nearly smothering her. Part of her wondered if she would be mad by the time she was released from this – and worried for the mental stability of those who had been petrified before she had been, as they must be trapped in this same scenario. Once she escaped the darkness, she knew, she would never wish to disappear again; for if she were to disappear, it would no doubt be into this darkness. _Life, light, sound… I love you. Anything would be better than this. I'm going mad, alone in here, and I haven't been able to do anything. Please… wait for me to come back. I'll make it back._

In the long term, the lack of sound was perhaps even more wearing than the impenetrable darkness. For most of her life, she'd been surrounded by exceptionally loud people – even if they didn't necessarily like her, as in primary school – and had grown used to having to seek out silence and solitude. To think that she had ever lusted after such things was now a cruel joke to her – now, when she yearned for any sort of sound, any sign of life! How could she have been such a fool to reject those blessings, to think that they had been nuisances? What would she do with herself, now that she could do nothing but wait for an antidote to be prepared? Something snapped inside of her, and she begged silently, to those who could not hear her: _Please, mandrakes, hurry – grow quickly. I want you to grow faster than any plant has ever grown in history. You're my only hope. Please… please…._

"…please wake up now, Miss Granger. That's a good girl," Madam Pomfrey nodded as Hermione stirred. "You've all been out for quite a while. Be careful when you sit up, now – your muscles will be stiff."

Hermione slowly sat up, muscles creaking, and beamed in relief, causing her dry lips to split. She could see, she could hear – she was _alive._ Her voice cracked when she spoke. "It was a basilisk."

"I know," Madam Pomfrey replied, now fussing over Colin Creevey. "I suppose that you'd all like to hear what happened?"

The previously petrified students nodded creakily; and so, Madam Pomfrey, over the wailing and mewling of an extremely happy reunion of Filch and Mrs. Norris, told them the thrilling tale of what had happened in the Chamber of Secrets.

**Claraowl: And that's it for the first chapter! There will be some romione next chapter, don't worry. ;)**

**This was actually just supposed to be a one-shot… and then it got ridiculously long, so I had to split it into a three-shot. Eh-heh.**

**I hope that you enjoyed this! Please let me know your thoughts by dropping me a review~! :D**


	2. Schooled Thinking

**Claraowl: Welcome back! I apologize for my previously obnoxiously long author's notes, so I'll keep this short. I don't own HP!**

**Thank you to those who reviewed!**

**We get into the romione this chapter. ;) Enjoy~!**

_I miss you. I love you. I want you._

Hermione had thought that she would be able to handle this. She had a Time-Turner, after all; there was no excuse, really, for her not to be able to handle her schedule. Yes, she was alone most of the time; yes, two closest friends were mad at her because of something that wasn't her fault… but there was no reason to fall to pieces – she had work to do, and quite a bit of it. Indeed, she didn't even have time to be worrying about anything but her workload – and finding helpful information for Hagrid, to save Buckbeak. It was the least she could do for him; he's lent a kind ear when she needed someone to listen to her woes. She'd been going down to see him more frequently – in truth, he reminded her a bit of her late grandfather.

She nearly smiled then; the memories, even now, were a bit bittersweet. A sigh slipped from between her downturned lips… at least she had those memories of happy times, even if such times – all of them, seemingly – were gone. Her shoulders slumped, and she rubbed an ink-stained hand roughly across her eyes. Why hadn't they been able to see that she'd only been trying to help? Why didn't they realize what danger could've been concealed in the wood of that broomstick? _Why do my friends always end up deserting me, or me having to move far from them? Why… Why did you leave me? I miss you, miss being around you. I can't even laugh anymore, no matter how hard I try. Please… don't leave me like they did… I was only trying to help._

She cleared her throat and turned back to her books as the common room slowly cleared around her. If she wanted to get today's work done before tomorrow's dawn broke, she would have to focus. Her quill was lowered to the parchment; the scratches echoed through the otherwise empty room, accentuating her loneliness. Her eyes closed slowly, then opened after a moment; she forced the treacherous thoughts to the back of her mind, and worked steadily. She would not surrender to something as trivial as yet another bout of solitary existence – she wasn't even entirely alone, as she had Hagrid, Crookshanks, and (to an extent) her roommates. Perhaps she was saddened that her closest friends had misunderstood her intent to help as one to hurt, but that was really no reason to not complete her duty. She may have been left nearly alone again, but that did not mean that she would let her grades slip. She needed some sort of constant in her life, after all. If she did not have even that, then she might go even madder than she already was.

The hoot-hoot clock on the mantle signaled the half-hour, the little owl popping out in place of a Muggle clock's cuckoo bird; it was eleven thirty post meridian. Her quill did not waver; the next day was, thank all things good, Saturday, so she did not need to worry about getting up early – and so could finish this essay tonight. The clock hooted again, and then once more; still, the scratches upon the parchment did not cease. _It's something a bit twisted_, she mused, dipping her quill into her half-empty ink pot. _Normally, things like this amount of work cause people to go mad, not keep them sane. _She traced her fingers sadly down the spine of the dusty text she'd borrowed from the library. _It's one part hate and once part the contrary, for now – this relationship with my work. I love you, in some ways: right now, you're the only thing on which I can really depend, as I don't want to burden anyone with my troubles, only to be cast away again. I suppose that I should thank you… or, at least, finish you, even if I'd truly love to sleep._

Her quill danced across the parchment, causing her to yearn for the days when she could dance freely. Times like this made her yearn for her family, certainly, but even more so for the siblings who had adopted her almost instantly upon meeting her. She had been about eight years old, and had just come home from a positively awful day at her primary school. On top of the ordinary boredom of the school day and the mocking of her classmates – sticks and stones would be much less painful, in her opinion – another one of those odd occurrences had happened. This time, she had somehow succeeded in animating every writing utensil in the classroom – and set them to work drawing rather unflattering pictures of her persecutors on every loose scrap of paper in sight. As a result, there had been quite a few yet-un-shredded depictions of her classmates floating around – and while it had amused her to no end, it had resulted in even worse retaliation from the people she had once hoped were her friends. (Looking back now, Hermione classified this as her third burst of magic.) So, disheartened, a young Hermione had walked the few short blocks home alone, her head hanging; when she arrived, she was met with a strange sight.

The house next to her had been completely empty when she had left that morning, but was suddenly quite obviously inhabited. The rooms inside (what she could see of them through the window) had been furnished, and the drapes had opened for the first time in her young memory. The lawn had already been neatened; she distinctly remembered her wonder at how her new neighbors had managed to accomplish so much in the length of a single school day. She'd blinked, sensing something she couldn't quite understand, something that made her curious – a yearning that was tingly, as if something was just out of her arm's reach, and she was balancing on a thin wire while trying to reach it. She'd stood there, trying to understand, for only a few minutes when a small face had peeked out of the window – and then abruptly thrown open the front door. "Hello!"

Hermione again nearly smiled at the fond memory – Evie hadn't changed, even after all these years; she was still the type to see someone standing in a daze and decide to abruptly greet them. At the time, Hermione had been utterly startled, and had tripped backwards, landing painfully on the sidewalk. Evie had rushed out the door and up to the bewildered Hermione, introduced herself, and begun firing rapid questions – only to be stopped be Ethan, who'd followed in his hyperactive little sister's wake and clamped his hand over her chattering mouth Hermione had gaped at the two of them from her spot on the sidewalk, as they both had toads on their heads as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. Despite their somewhat bizarre meeting, the three had soon grown close – close enough for Hermione to mainly ignore the jibes of the rest of her peers.

Now, she wished desperately that the two of them had come to Hogwarts with her instead of being homeschooled. She needed someone on her side again – someone who could understand. Her roommates were pleasant, and they got along relatively well, but it just wasn't the same. Hermione yearned for Evie and Ethan, for Ron and Harry – she needed her closest friends again. Now, she could admit that she couldn't do this alone anymore. _I want you here, on me side again – not on the opposing team, or watching from a distance. I need your support, your camaraderie. I need someone to lean on… I need someone to help me smile again, to help make me human. I'm not asking for a knight in shining armor. I'm asking for a fellow page to give me a leg up onto my horse. Please…._

The quill slipped out of her limp fingers and landed on the table; her head thumped softly onto the mercifully soft stack of spare parchment. Hermione drifted off into a confused and troubled sleep, unaware of when a concerned being – more worried than angered, at that early hour – descended the stairs and slipped one of the throws from a couch over her wearied shoulders.

"Sleep well," the half-man, half-boy whispered, torn between his anger over previous events and his worry for his friend. Slowly, he turned towards the stairs and walked back up to the dormitory, Scabbers quivering in the pocket of his pajama top.

_I miss you. I love you. I want you._

When they'd been young, she and Evie had often played dress-up and dreamed of going off to balls – yes, they danced at the studio, but there was something about a ball that seemed simply magical, and drew them to the concept like the metaphorical cat to the milk bottle. The two of them (much to Ethan's amusement) had actually attempted to hold a ball in Hermione's basement when they were eight, only to be thwarted by their inability to decide who had to play the part of the prince. Ethan had promptly ceased his amusement when the two of them had apprehended him as he guffawed on the steps and forced him to play that part – and grew positively grumpy when they forced the fairy king's crown onto his head. He'd proceeded to pout until they managed to get the fact through his skull that all he had to do was dance; as he'd loved to dance, even back then, he'd perked up considerably and conceded to their demands. The three of them had then had a lovely little ball – even if it wasn't quite what they'd imagined.

Now here Hermione was, in her fourth year at Hogwarts, getting ready for an actual ball – the Yule Ball. She had always imagined that she and Evie would go to their first ball together – Ethan would take Hermione, and Evie would go with one of the Johnson brothers, probably Lucas, he'd fancied her for ages despite his enmity with Ethan – and the two girls would get ready together, laughing and chatting. Getting ready without Evie was lonely, and felt a bit unfaithful. There wasn't much that they could do – after all, Evie didn't go to Hogwarts, as her mum homeschooled both her and Ethan – but that did not interfere with Hermione's wishful thinking. _I miss you, Evie. I wish that you could be here, to get ready with me – and so that we could dance together, like we'd planned. Sure, we might scare a couple of people, but that doesn't really matter. _She sighed, squirting yet more Sleakeazy's hair potion into her palm and rubbing it into her hair. _Besides, you know how terrible I am at taming my hair. _As she smiled at that thought, the door to the dorm's loo opened, and admitting Lavender and Parvati.

"Oh, you're here already?" Parvati asked in surprise, meeting Hermione's eyes. "I thought that we'd have to come find you to get ready with us."

Hermione blinked. "Pardon?"

"Well, we're getting ready together, aren't we?" Lavender giggled, amused. "You know, like we agreed to last week?"

"I didn't realize that that included me," Hermione informed her two dorm-mates, squirting more potion into her palm.

"Well, of course it did," Lavender smiled, slightly confused. "Why wouldn't it? We're friends." Parvati nodded in agreement.

At this, Hermione smiled awkwardly, albeit happily. "In that case, could I impose upon you to help me with this mess?" She gestured hopelessly to her hair with potion-covered hands. "I've been trying to tame it for over an hour, and it's not cooperating much…."

"Sure," Parvati grinned, "but you have to let me borrow those bright pink earring of yours. I only have pale pink!"

"Deal," Hermione beamed, offering a potion-covered hand for a shake. Parvati took it, and Lavender laughed.

"I'll start on your hair while you do Hermione's," she volunteered, still giggling. "You showered this morning, right?"

"Yup," Parvati replied, already wrist-deep in the bushy mess. "Thanks, Lav."

"No problem! I'm so excited for this!" her friend squealed in reply, fetching a brush from the vanity.

The other two spoke words of agreement, and hair was dealt with. Then, after a few moments, as if she could bear the suspense no longer, Parvati burst out, "Who're you going with, Hermione?"

Hermione jumped slightly, startled, and nearly yanked the piece of hair she was straightening out of her scalp. "What?"

"When Harry came over to ask me to go to the ball, he asked Lav if she'd go with Ron."

"We were surprised that you weren't going with Ron, since you obviously fancy him and all…" Lavender continued.

"I do not!" Hermione protested. "He's merely a close friend."

"…so we were wondering who you were going with," Lavender continued, ignoring her bushy-haired friend's feeble denial. "We asked Harry, but he didn't know."

"Which, of course, made us even more curious," Parvati giggled, finally finishing the application of the Sleakeazy's hair potion. "There, you're done."

"Thanks," Hermione smiled, and the two girls stood to rinse the potion off of their hands in the nearby sink. Her hair now hung in sleek sheets around her face.

"Merlin, your hair's long when it's straight," Lavender observed from her seat, where she was now brushing her own hair. "It looks pretty."

"Thank you, again," Hermione smiled, and began twisting it up into an elegant bun.

"So who are you going with?" Parvati prodded, plaiting her hair.

"It's a surprise," came the reply. "You'd tease me if I told you; that's why I didn't tell the guys."

"You told Ginny, though, right?" Lavender inquired, curling her hair with her wand.

"I had no choice," Hermione sighed, pinning the bun into place. "She has some blackmail on me."

"Like what?" Parvati asked innocently, her fingers still twisting her hair into place.

"Yes, like what?" Lavender grinned, going to fetch her dress robes.

"Like I'd tell you," Hermione laughed, following her. "One person knowing is enough!"

Parvati trailed after them, still plaiting her hair. "Oh, come on… we can keep secrets!"

"We could even tell you something in return," Lavender offered, disrobing.

Hermione grinned. _They aren't Evie, nor are they Ginny – heaven knows that one Evie and one Ginny are more than enough – and we may be different, but they're actually excellent friends. I really don't know why people think that we're enemies. I love you two for being my friends, and for giving me someone to play dress-up with here at Hogwarts. I don't think that I can thank you enough. _"Thanks, but I don't think you'd want me knowing that kind of information about you." She pulled off her everyday robes, and pulled her periwinkle dress robes out of her trunk.

"True," Parvati snickered, finally finishing her plait and disrobing as well. "With your memory, you'd be able to use something like that long after we'd forgotten about it."

"Precisely," Hermione nodded, stepping into her dress robes. "Will you zip me up, please?"

"Sure," Lavender replied, and did so. "Now you do me."

Hermione obliged, carefully zipping the back of the shimmery material. "Oh, Parvati – the earrings are in the drawer, in the third box to the left."

"Wow, you're so organized," Parvati giggled, fixing the side of her dress robes and fetching the earrings. "Thanks."

"No problem."

"Now for makeup!" Lavender declared, marching back into the lavatory in her bare feet. Parvati followed her excitedly; Hermione trailed after them more slowly, smiling.

While her body was busy applying her makeup, her mind was shifting elsewhere. She didn't need to be worrying about the past right now, what she would've done with Evie; she didn't need to worry about her future, even. Right now, she could just be an ordinary teenaged girl, and had every right to be excited about a dance. So what if people didn't see her as a woman? She'd prove them wrong tonight – it wasn't as if she looked horrid in this dress. She'd prove herself to herself, and to the others; she'd make _him_ swallow his mocking words, force him to realize that she was more than capable of getting a date for the ball – and she'd have fun doing it. _After all, _she grinned, fastening her necklace, _making everyone realize that there's another side to me is just a bonus tonight. Yes, I'd like them to acknowledge me as someone other than the plain girl, but I don't really need their approval. More than anyone else,_ she thought, picking up a tube of lipstick, _I want to have fun and have him to realize that he can't just have me as backup. I want you,_ she smirked, popping the top off the tube and lifting the pink to her lips, _to be forced to admit what I'm worth._

"Ready, Hermione?" Lavender grinned, her recently-donned heels clicking as she joined her friend at the mirror.

"I'm a bit nervous," Hermione admitted, laughing as she finished applying her lipstick.

"Why?" Parvati inquired from the bench, where she was putting on her shoes. "You look fantastic! I bet," she giggled, "that the guys won't recognize you at first."

"How likely," Hermione scoffed, rolling her eyes and putting the lipstick back on the vanity. "They've only spent most of their time at Hogwarts with me. What would be unusual about them not recognizing me?"

"Take a look at yourself," Parvati instructed, standing and joining her two friends at the mirror. "Is that the girl you usually see in the mirror?"

"No," Hermione conceded, "but the basic features are the same."

"They didn't even notice your teeth," Lavender pointed out, reaching over Hermione's shoulder to straighten Parvati's sleeve.

"True." Hermione smirked again, causing the girls on either side of her to exchange a glance; this was a new Hermione. "This should be fun."

"Right! Now let's get down there so you can sweep your mystery man off his feet!" Lavender giggled, twirling so that she could link arms with both of them.

This time, the bookworm grinned. "Yes, let's." _You'll see a side of me you never knew existed. I hope you're ready, because I won't hold back._ The three of them half-skipped down to the common room, where Hermione bade farewell to her friends, who were to wait for their dates there (Lavender huffed about the boys taking too long). She took a deep breath and climbed out of the portrait hole, and then made her way down to the Entrance Hall, where Viktor awaited her. He took a moment to recognize her, and his mouth dropped slightly open.

Yes, tonight was definitely going to be excellent fun.

_I miss you. I love you. I want you._

Today was her sixth day at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, and was to be spent entirely in the company of one of her closest friends – the one who never failed to make her laugh. Granted, the day would be spent cleaning, but they would be cleaning together – either in comfortable silence or happy chatter. For some bizarre reason, it was now easier to turn their rows into something more cheerful, almost flirtatious, when the two were alone. It was something new, but enjoyable – yes, a good row could be almost fun, but this let them experience that fun without getting truly furious; though utterly unprecedented, it was something that both of them hoped could continue, even after the third wheel of their tricycle arrived.

The male in question rapped his knuckles lightly against her forehead, grinning at her inattention. Hermione jerked back to reality and smiled sheepishly; she'd been lost in thought for the past few minutes, and had not realized it. Ron, having noticed, had taken advantage of this situation to poke fun at his best friend. "Anyone home?"

"Barely," she laughed. "I was off in a faraway land, called 'thought.' I tend to get lost there quite a bit."

"Really? I can't say that I ever have," he laughed, knuckles still on her forehead.

"That isn't difficult to imagine," she replied teasingly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded in false indignation.

"Oh, nothing," she beamed, ducking away from his hand and waving her dust rag vaguely in his direction. "Shall we get back to work, as you so kindly waited for me while I was lost in the land of cognition?"

"If we have to," he shrugged, obviously not as worried about cleaning as he was about teasing her. He flicked his rag gently into her face.

"The sooner we get back to work, the sooner we'll be done," Hermione reasoned, flicking her rag in retaliation.

"Always the practical one," he sighed with a grin, swatting her rag with his.

"One of us has to be." Her rag smacked against his hand; her eyes sparkled with laughter. "Since you refuse to, the less-than-savory task falls to me."

"Hey, I can be practical when I want to!" Ron protested, grinning and flicking his rag against her nose.

"Key words being _when you want to,_ better known as _never_," Hermione scoffed, ducking beneath his outstretched arm and flicking the tip of his reddened right ear with her rag. She was laughing; no one else could make her laugh as honestly as he could, nor so easily. Oh, how she'd missed this casual bickering, this game of words and actions. _Do you know how much I miss you and your humor when we're apart, or too irritated with each other to speak?_

He laughed as well, her closest friend and steadfast comrade, even when they weren't speaking. "Fine, when I'm forced to be." He held up his rag. "En garde."

She smirked in reply, and touched her rag to his; the sword (rag) fight began. This continued for quite some time, as it is rather difficult to de-rag another rag-wielder with said piece of dust-laden cloth. Indeed, it might have gone on for the rest of the afternoon had Ginny, passing by on her way up to visit Buckbeak – having finished her assignment – not called in to them, "Stop flirting!"

"We're not flirting!" Ron hollered back, finally being de-ragged for his lack of attention. "Oi!" he exclaimed in mock indignation, turning to Hermione, who beamed.

"Ye looked away," she reminded him. "If ye wish to win in a battle — be it of swords or of rags – it is important not to be distracted by bystanders."

Ron rolled his eyes and gave her an ironic little bow. "Yes, milady. I concede defeat. What wouldst thou have me do?"

"Take up thine rag, and continue with thine duties, rouge," came the quick reply, accompanied by an equally ironic curtsy.

"Your wish is my command, fair lady," he grinned, taking his rag from her hand and – in accordance with their impromptu play – brushing his lips over her knuckles. He then blinked, flushed, and quickly turned back to his cleaning duties.

Hermione quietly turned back to her own work, cheeks tinged rose. Things had been somehow different between since she'd arrived at Grimmauld Place five days previously. She wasn't complaining; their relationship was freer and closer now – looser, even. He'd started letting her in more, and had grown more likely to do things like that – even if he immediately grew silent afterwards – and she… well, she'd unintentionally revealed something she hadn't even told Evie. Her rag squeaked against the wood of the cabinet, alerting her to the fact that she's been cleaning the same spot for approximately three and seventy-two hundredths minutes. She shook her head slightly and moved her rag to a new spot. Honestly, she hadn't dared to tell anyone else about it, after those girls had abandoned her that first time – and her magic had exploded, injuring them. She bit her lip; why should she be surprised that he'd stayed by her side? He was the most loyal person she'd ever known.

"Ron?"

"Yeah?" he replied casually, having forced his earlier actions to a corner of his mind for the sake of his sanity.

"Thank you," she smiled, rising to her toes to reach an upper part of the stubbornly dusty cabinet.

He blinked. "For what?"

"Oh, just for being my friend," she replied, bouncing on the balls of her feet and raising dust clouds from the floor. _I love you for putting up with my quirks, for not scorning me when the terror from that book resurfaced. I love you for being my friend, and… for something else I don't quite care to admit. Not yet._

"Er… you're welcome?" he replied, uncertain as to what could've brought this on – and clueless as to the proper response. Then, noticing her plight, added, "D'you need a boost?"

"That would be rather helpful." She smiled, turning to face him. He walked over to her, and indicated that she should face the cabinet. She did so, and felt him pause behind her, as if steeling himself. Then, lightly, his hands alit upon her waist. She froze; she'd only had a male's hands on her waist if she were dancing with him – or if he was one of her relations, swinging her much younger self up into the air in greeting… or if it were her book-self, then in very compromising situations. She couldn't move; she was torn between her own budding desires and her irrational fear stemming from one book she would gladly throw into the fire.

He must have realized that something was amiss – though, knowing him, he didn't realize which particular emotions were battling – for her released his gentle grip and took a step back, ears red once more. "Wh-Why don't we just switch? I'll finish this if you'll work on the window."

"Alright." She smiled awkwardly, still fighting against herself. "Perks of being tall, yes?"

"Yeah," he laughed, a bit harshly, still stung from her reaction to his touch. "That's about all I'm good for."

Hermione paused; when had the conversation grown so serious? Furthermore, where on earth had he gotten such a foolish notion? "You really shouldn't joke about things like that, Ron." A slightly bitter, disbelieving smile graced his lips at her words. Seeing this, she continued, "Of course you're good for more than that."

He did not answer, but instead finished the dusting of the cabinet, and then walked over to clean behind the door. It swung shut at his touch. The room grew a few shades darker, matching the shift in mood. Hermione sighed. "You're loyal, and you're the only one in whom I'd put my complete trust – and have, actually. I never even told Evie about the book. Plus, you can make almost anyone laugh, no matter how down they are."

Ron paused, and looked up at her. "Thanks."

The look in his eyes portrayed an untouchable wound, inflicted by years of overshadowing and deepened by the previous year's events. She held his gaze until he looked back to the door, trapped in his pain. _If only you could see yourself through my eyes, and not always put yourself down. _Why couldn't she think of anything to say – why couldn't she cheer him up like he did her? _You're worth so much more than you think you are; you're so much smarter, so much stronger. I want you to realize what you're worth… what your absence would cost those around you. If you were gone, forever… I don't know what I'd do. _She opened her mouth, words forming on her tongue before she was consciously aware of them, "Ron, I –"

At which point Fred and George Apparated into the room, completely wrecking the atmosphere. The doppelgangers proceeded to tease the cleaning pair about having the door shut after flirting so blatantly (a pair of mental notes was made to get revenge upon Ginny), and that they should come downstairs for lunch. They then Disapparated, leaving the two alone once more. Ron and Hermione looked at each other, laughed helplessly, and put down their rags. Ron opened the door and allowed Hermione to pass through first – fleetingly putting a hand to her waist to guide her through ahead of him. She smiled up at him, and the two went down to lunch.

_I miss you. I love you. I want you._

Yes, it was hard, knowing that her roommate was snogging someone who had been her best friend and the object of her fantasies for some years. No, she would not give in to temptation and send another swarm of birds. Yes, she would like to know what had made him so angry with her before the rest of the drama had unfolded. No, she would not ask him – she would not speak to him. She refused to even look at him, to avoid further rending of her heart; she had things more important than love to focus upon – there was no reason for the rest of her life to go to pieces just because Ron had chosen another girl over her, or because her roommate had chosen to go out with someone whom Hermione obviously fancied… not that she really blamed Lavender. Things had been rocky between them before she came into the equation; yes, Hermione was jealous of her, but no, Lavender wasn't to blame. After all, Hermione hadn't sent the birds at Lavender; she had sent them at Ron. It was his fault, after all, for acting unreasonably and unfathomably cold towards her.

She sighed, wondering if things would ever be the same between them again, doubting it more the longer she pondered the matter. One glance was allowed across the common room, and quickly regretted; honestly, they appeared to have more tentacles than the giant squid. And yet… she wished that she could have him back, if only as a friend. There was no one else who could make her laugh quite so hard, no one else who could read and comfort her at her weakest. Her life, once he had come into it, had become much more fun. She gazed out the window, silently willing the two wrestling halves of an octopus to separate. _I miss you. I need you back in my life, to talk and laugh with – if nothing else. _

As much as she hated to admit it, that was not all for which she desired him back. Yes, she had confessed – to herself, and later by force to Ginny and Evie – that she was attracted to him, fancied him, even… yes, she had admitted that her feelings were stronger even than that. She rested her chin on her hand, absently doodling on her bookmark. She hadn't felt so – for lack of a better word – stimulated since she'd stumbled across a certain book in a dusty corner of her hometown library, and had lived out the personal life of a member of a royal court. Glancing down at her bookmark, she realized what she was doodling, and promptly crumpled up the paper and tossed it in the fire; she then tore a new bookmark off of a sheet of parchment. She didn't need that sort of proof floating around, especially not now. Yes, there were a few dreams – both nighttime and daytime – but dreams were dreams, and this was her current reality. He didn't need to know the effect he had upon her, nor the way he interfered with her sleeping and waking times – the way he made her want to cry and laugh at the same time. _I love the effect you have upon me. I love being around you… and, as I've finally admitted, I love you. _She needed him, and his effects; she needed his smile and his laugh, his coarse jokes and his sarcasm. If only, if only….

She stood, gathered her books, and walked out of the common room, heading for the library, her hideaway and her safety. She skirted around the marks of Peeves and took a shortcut through a tapestry. Within minutes, she was setting her books down in her favorite corner of the library, where there was – inexplicably – a bean bag chair shaped like a baked potato, complete with a small yellow cushion representing a pat of butter. She sank into it, sighing, and pulled a book off of her pile; she'd long since finished her homework and studies, of course, and now had the luxury of time to read for pleasure. This particular book had been a favourite of hers for many years; its daring heroine, after uncovering a scheme and defeating the enemy, spoke directly to the reader, challenging him or her to surpass her. This challenge had always stirred Hermione's blood, making her desire for success and a certain level of power greater than usual. Now, it seemed to mock her for her difference in desires; did she not still wish to prove that she could stand on her own? Was she, after all, a fairy tale princess, awaiting a knight in shining armor?

No, she didn't need someone to save her – she only wanted someone to stand by her side, so that they could fight together. She wanted someone to be on her side, to have her back when she had his. Yes, this may have seemed noble, but she knew that it ran deeper than that – she wanted him to stay with her, even after the battle was done, after she had retired to her chambers. She needed no knight in shining armor; she wanted a comrade during and after the battle. Could anything have prevented the creation of this new antagonist – was she to discover that he was the mastermind behind the scheme? If so, how could she find it in her heart to defeat him? Yes, she would like to win against him in the most intimate of battles, but to beat him into submission was something that she could not do. _Why did you leave me now, when the battle is so close? I want you on my side, and at my back. I want you to be there, even after the battle is over. I… _

_I _want_ you. _

When had the feeling become so carnal, so lusty? When had the change occurred? Had she just not noticed the growth of this, the gradual siege upon her heart?

She glanced down at the book again, re-reading the challenge of her favourite heroine – the challenge to become a stronger, fiercer character than she. There, in the dusty corner of the Hogwarts library, seated upon a baked potato beanbag, Hermione felt the old spark defiantly flare up once more. She smirked; how could she have let it nearly die? If she wanted something, she must fight for it; if she wanted some_one_, then let the battle begin. _Just you wait, _she thought, snapping her book shut, _I'll surpass you, and then come for you. Just you wait._

Thus decided, she gathered her books, stood up, and marched off, prepared for her future battles. Let them come – she would be ready. _Just you wait. I'll be there. _She would overcome the difficulties, and then hear the cries of surrender. _Just you wait._

**Claraowl: Well, I hope that you enjoyed that, and that I managed to keep her thoughts in character. **

**Was that enough to satisfy your romione cravings?**

**I hope not – there's still one more chapter to go! ;)**

**Please drop me a review to let me know your thoughts~!**


	3. Eternal Cognition

**Claraowl: Now we have the final chapter! **

**Oh, and just so you know… I don't write this quickly. I've been working on this fic for four months. This **_**was**_** going to be a one-shot, but my plot bunnies got away from me.**

**Own HP do I not. Enjoy I hope you.**

_I miss you. I love you. I want you._

She knew that it was necessary; this was the only way to keep them safe. She had to do it, and couldn't even say good-bye – because when she had done what she must do, they wouldn't remember her… and if she said good-bye beforehand, it would arouse suspicion. She must do this quietly, carefully – she didn't want what could be their last interaction to be tinged by more pain than she already felt. Her eyes blurred as she took a last, long look into what had once been her bedroom; it was now sparse, her photo-wall stripped bare, the photos and all necessary items hidden away in her beaded bag. It was like a stranger's room now, yet was a tribute to her lost childhood – all that time she had spent in there, both happy and despairing, was gone forever, an innocent time that she could never get back. Bill and Chessie sat on her bed, looking expectantly up at her; she gulped, re-entered her old room, and hugged them tightly before slipping them into her bag. She might need them in the weeks to come. Tears bit at the backs of her eyes, but she refused to let them out; her last day with her parents would be a happy one. Wand up her sleeve and beaded bag in her pocket, Hermione descended the stairs to have breakfast with her parents for what could be the final time.

"Good morning, Hermione," her mother smiled, looking up from her book and tea – her mother detested coffee.

"Morning, Mum," she returned, forcing herself to smile. "You and Dad both have the day off, right?" _I may never see her reading while drinking her morning tea again._

"That we do," her father answered from behind her, entering the kitchen with truly splendid bedhead and placing a kiss on his daughter's forehead.

"You look like an owl, Dad," Hermione laughed, wondering if she would live to see this happen again, "you have tufts."

"Do I?" he smiled, only half-surprised.

"You do, dear," Mrs. Granger giggled. "I remember that I thought that was the funniest thing when we were first married."

"And now?" he grinned, walking over to steal a sip of her tea and kiss her on the cheek.

"It's even more amusing," she beamed, catching his jaw.

Hermione smiled, sadly now, as she watched her parents go through their usual morning routine of flirting. Yes, they could be strict sometimes, but they were very loving. Even if she'd been given the chance to grow up with wizarding parents, she would not have taken it; she loved them far too much. It was for this reason that she had to do what she must. _I miss you already._

"What would you like for breakfast, Hermione?" her father inquired, fluffing her bushy hair, so like her mother's.

"Would you make you special crumpets? Please?" she requested.

"That sounds good to me," her mother commented. "You haven't made those for us in quite some time."

"Crumpets it is!" her father exclaimed jovially; he'd woken up in an especially good mood that morning. "Grab our aprons, my little princess, and the three of us shall feast!" He'd used that nickname for her since she'd first read and fallen in love with the Frances Hodgson Burnett novel at the age of five. Hermione laughed, her heart quietly breaking at the thought of what she must later do, and fetched the three aprons.

Hermione's mother got to her feet. "Let us bake a royal batch of crumpets."

Crookshanks, having just awakened, meowed at the three of them from the top of the refrigerator. He had received instructions from his mistress to accompany her to the Burrow and then return home once she set out on her mission. He was to follow her parents to Australia and keep them safe. Stretching, he caught his mistress's eye and purred an affirmation and a reassurance; nothing would prevent him from fulfilling his mission while she was on hers. His mistress smiled gratefully and reached up to scratch behind his ears, a thank-you and a promise. If at all possible, she would return to him – to all of them – and set things right. For now, she would enjoy what could be her last day with her parents. _I love you all, even if you won't remember me… even though you might never see me again._

Unfortunately, the day passed far too quickly. The three of them ate crumpets, and laughed as Crookshanks whisked one away to eat. They dropped by the local park, and played on the swings as they had when Hermione was young. After dropping by their favourite café for some sandwiches, they spent the rest of the afternoon walking around the town, browsing through all of the book stores. That evening, after dinner, the board games came out, old stories were recounted, and much laughter was had. All too soon, the time had arrived for her to do what she must. Hermione drew her wand.

Her parents were sitting in front of the fire after the long, happy day, resting and reading. She entered silently, her eyes blurring again. It was the only way; she had no choice. All the happy times, all the sad times… everything they had experienced together – everything must be hidden. Nothing could remain that might put them in danger, so the memories must be modified. They must go, and live where they would be safe. She lifted her wand, and cast the spell. _I'm sorry that I have to do this. This isn't your war, and you can't be made targets. I hate to do this, but I want you to be safe. _The spell cast, Hermione turned on her heel and, upon picking up Crookshanks, left her childhood home. Tears, finally free, streamed down her cheeks as her cat meowed sympathetically on her shoulder. Her beaded bag thumped against her thigh in her pocket as she turned on the spot, leaving no trace of herself in her hometown except footprints in the dirt.

_I miss you. I love you. I want you._

She was crying; tears coursed down her cheeks. She was crying, and she hated it. The luxury of time to cry did not exist; any time that they had needed to be spent in pursuit of Horcruxes and ways to destroy them. If she had a bit of spare time, it should be spent in mental search of Horcrux hiding places and destruction methods, not in pining for someone who could not find his way back now that they'd moved the tent. A lump re-formed in her throat at this thought, and she struggled to stay silent. The tears needed to stop. She had no time for this. The fate of the wizarding world rested on their shoulders; they needed results. She had no time to cry, nor could she afford such weakness. Weakness – no matter which link in the chain it might be – would be their downfall.

Yet weak was what she had been forced to be, however briefly, when he had left. She had been helpless, bound by her own spell, and could not catch him in time – curse his long legs, curse her short strides! She had called to him, had _begged_ – she had put her very pride on the line, had offered up what little to which she desperately clung! Yet he had not even considered turning around, not wavered for a single step; he had simply disappeared into the rain, and vanished with a crack. And so she sat, huddled on her bunk, willing herself to sleep. She needed to refresh her mind in dreams, no matter how terrible; she needed her cognitive processes to be at their peak. She could not manage any breakthroughs if she was sleep-deprived. This was no time to be sobbing like a broken-hearted schoolgirl, even if that was her age. Her hands balled into fists, her jagged nails biting into her skin. _I miss you – how dare you leave, how _could_ you leave when you know how important this is, how much we need you here?_ _How could you do this to us, to me? Now you won't even be able to come back…._

She had given up trying to say his name a week after his departure. It was an impossible task for her; her throat seemed to close up around it, no matter how small or desperate the whisper might be. Now, she tossed aside the notion without a second thought; why cause more pain, why twist the knife in her wound? Rubbing her cheeks in an attempt to stem the flow of salty liquid, she glance to the mouth of the tent where Harry, her brother in all but blood and familial ties, sat on watch. He had, after silently observing the fact that she'd been unable to sleep for days, insisted that she return to the tent when she came to take over watch. He would be fine, he'd said; it was brisk enough to keep him awake, but not cold enough to freeze him completely. She needed rest, he'd argued, if they were to come up with a plan. They needed her brain to function properly. Unable in her sleep-deprived state to refute his uncharacteristically well-reasoned argument, she had relented and returned to her yet-warm bunk. It was at times like this when she wondered which of them was the older sibling – yes, she was numerically older, and usually the more reasonable one, but he took the role of the protector. A rush of bittersweet affection rose in her chest. _I love you,_ she thought,_ but not in the same way as I love… him. Perhaps, had neither of us met the Weasleys, me might've even felt something romantic – but then, if we hadn't, we wouldn't've known each other anyway. As we are now, it's impossible for us to be romantically entangled – and I don't regret it in the slightest. _She attempted a smile, failed, and then rolled over to root through her beaded bag.

After a few moments of searching and one summoning spell, Chessie and Bill smiled up at her, her staunchest comrades once more. She drew comfort from them, and they sympathized with her during her nearly overwhelming heartache. Into them she poured her sorrows; into them she poured her broken dreams. After a short while of half-conscious rocking, she looked up and loosened her grip on her well-loved comforters. Her tears had finally dried. Once again, she had some strength to move forward. After placing a tender kiss on Chessie's nose and Bill's beak, she tucked them safely back into her bag. They had stemmed her flood of sorrows for now, and had given her some hope. They would continue their magic – their own, special magic, the type done without wands – as long as she needed them. She finally managed a smile as she sent one last thought out into the night before finally succumbing to sleep. _I'll be waiting for your return; I want you to come back to us, to me – and you will. You'll find a way, as long as you're alive. Sleep well… stay safe. Goodnight._

_I miss you. I love you. I want you._

It was over; it was all over. Voldemort had finally been defeated; the battle was won. An occasion for relief, yes, but not for joy – not yet. Before joy could come, those who had given their lives in the struggle must first be honored and mourned. A breeze, as if sensing the mood, drifted quietly across the grounds. She under their tree, her head leaning back against the trunk; her eyes were unfocused. For the first time in far too long, she actually felt safe – yet her hand was still, out of habit, clenched around the handle of her wand. The sky was cloudless, yet the air was a mass of slowly settling dust. Upon it rested the mingled scents of rain and blood. She did not feel ill; she did not feel sad; she not feel happy – she did not feel anything at all. The leaves above her head rustled in the slight breeze; part of her mind mused that the tree was rather amazing for surviving the battle in one piece. A twig crunched on the ground near her; she did not startle. She had sensed his approach – the war had trained her to do so.

"May I join you?"

"Do you even need to ask?"

He settled down next to her; she rested her head upon his shoulder. A smile – it was small, but was a smile nonetheless – crossed his lips briefly; he rested his head atop hers. A sense of peace drifted over the two of them, the first bit of peace in months… the first moment of peace in years. _I'd forgotten what this felt like, to not be fearing for our lives. It's kind of twisted, isn't it, chaos? I miss you, in some ways… at least I could feel something then. Am I in shock? Yes, that's probably why my emotions are so blank. _She stretched her fingers; he tangled five of his in her hair, unafraid of imaginary consequences, the ones that had forbidden this action in the past. She leaned into this motion, giving confirmation that it was alright, that it was comforting. At any other time, she might have actually enjoyed it. Now, she was simply drawing the fact that he was alive from this action, and being thankful for that fact. What would she have done if he'd died in the war?

She would have kept fighting, certainly. She would've gotten revenge on whoever dare lay a wand on him – if Mrs. Weasley hadn't gotten there first – and destroyed the entire enemy force if she could. Then, after it was all over – then, and only then – she would've ended it for herself, even if it was only somewhere deep inside of her… or even permanently. She shook her head; no, she wouldn't have taken it that far. She could survive without him around; she simply wouldn't be happy. Her hand found his, buried in her hair, and held it there. It was useless thinking about this now. She had an entire future to tell him, to let him know beyond a shadow of a doubt. For now, it would be alright to say it wordlessly. If she told him now, while still in her state of shock, it would not mean anything. _I love you. I need to wait a little longer to tell you… but I do love you. You'll know that soon, if you don't already._

Yes, he was alive; she was alive; several of their dearest were alive – but not all. So many people, young and old, had died fighting for what they believed to be right. They were gone, never to return – after all, few of them were the type to return as ghosts; they would have 'gone on,' as Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington had once phrased the term. Not a single one of them would ever show even an elbow on this earth again outside of portraits, photographs, and memories. Never… never again would they be there to laugh, to cry, to live their lives – so many, on the verge of some new phase of their lives, would never get a chance to experience what could have been. Never would they help their children grow, never would they experience the thrill of a new love – never would they be able to have even a dull day, ever on this earth, again. Finally, she felt something: a painful twinge in her heart. _I want you to be able to live as long as you should have been able, had the war not taken you away. _She pressed her face into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent – earth and grass, mixed with the copper of blood and the salt of terrified sweat.

"You're crying." His words were tender, his tone soft.

"So are you." Her words were quiet, and she did not need to look to know that they were true.

The sky grew dimmer; they stayed like that for some time, comforting each other. A light, hazy rain began to fall, slipping through the leaves of their tree. Slowly, hand in hand, they rose and returned to the castle – to those who were left of their beloved. The days that were to come would be painful and trying, but they had each other to lean on, and others in which to put their trust. They would not let the sacrifice of those who had given their lives be in vain. Together, they walked towards their future; together, they would build a new world – or at least repair the one that the war had broken.

As long as they were together, all would be well.

_I miss you. I love you. I want you._

She awoke to a furry bum in her face. Muttering about attention-demanding half-kneazles, Hermione shoved the sleeping Crookshanks onto her pillow. The ginger quadruped in question blinked twice, meowed his displeasure, and stretched luxuriously. The day had barely dawned; the birds chirped cheerily outside of the curtains of her four-poster. Hermione was back at Hogwarts; it was a cool Saturday morning in early November. Crookshanks batted the curtains aside and hopped down onto the dormitory floor, crossed it, and hopped onto Ginny's bed. Hermione laughed as the ginger-haired girl's snores abruptly ceased and were replaced by muffled curses.  
"Damn it, Hermione, control your cat!"

Hermione did not reply, but simply laughed harder. This had been a routine for the past several Saturday morns – Crookshanks would awaken her by sitting on her face, then cross the room to do the same thing to Ginny. Ginny, obviously, did not enjoy this; while she had laughed at it the first few times it had occurred, she now found it rather irritating. Hence her response – after all, the Weasleys are not known for their proper language. Hermione, of course, had decided that the best course of action was to irritate her friend, as both knew too much about the other to ever risk terminating their friendship. This was a comfort to both of them, as so much had changed.

Hermione had returned to Hogwarts by joining Ginny's year – but Ron and Harry had elected to go directly into the working world instead of going back to Hogwarts. She didn't like to admit it, but Hermione did feel a bit lonely. Yes, she had lovely friends – Ginny in particular, and the other girls had warmed to her quickly; certain people even treated her with a bit of reverence for the events of the war – but she hadn't been a year without her two closest friends since she'd met them. It was different, yes; she wasn't quite sure if it was a bad thing, but it did leave her feeling as if there was a gap somewhere. This was not to say that she was unproductive in their absence; rather, without their presence and distractions (namely, without death-defying adventures), she was able to work much more efficiently. She even had time to make more hats, despite the pressure of their upcoming N.E.W.T.s. However, she did miss the laughter, the chaos, and the knowledge they had of one another – she even missed the bickering, especially in its newer form. _This type of chaos is lovely,_ she smiled, prying her cat off of her younger friend's face, _but I miss you and your version of chaos. I don't think that anything can compare._

Ginny huffed and rolled over under her covers after the ball of fluff had been removed from her face. "I'm going back to bed."

Crookshanks, displeased with this decision, shot out of Hermione's arms and landed squarely on Ginny's now-exposed back. Hermione allowed herself to snicker at her friend's plight. Ginny sat up, attempting to shake off the persistent feline. The bushy-haired girl volunteered, "You know that Crooks will behave if you agree to rise at a reasonable hour."

"It's eight in the morning!" Ginny wailed, still trying in vain to remove the ball of ginger fur.

"Yes, and if you promise to be up before noon, he'll leave you be," Hermione pointed out, smoothing Crookshanks's fur as the cat adhered tightly to the back of Ginny's pajamas.

"It's _Saturday_! I need my sleep, and this is one of my only chances to get it," came the impassioned response, resulting in the slight slackening of claws. She took advantage of this, and flung the cat most unceremoniously into his owner's arms.

Hermione sighed, soothing her irritated feline. "Fine, but you're probably too awake now to go back to sleep. I'm going to get dressed and head down to breakfast."

Ginny, accepting the truth of these words, stated that she would come with her, and dragged herself out of bed to start getting dressed. "One of these days, I'm going to get seriously irritated with your cat."

"Swearing at him isn't enough?"

"Talk to me about it in a month. We'll see how funny it is then." Ginny glanced around at the other bunks. "They really can sleep through anything, can't they?"

"They're probably just used to it by now." Hermione laughed, pulling on her shoes. "After all, it's happened every weekend since the school year began."

"True," the other girl returned, opening the door of their dormitory. The two wandered down to the common room, chatting amicably; Hermione forced herself not to look for Ron and Harry, as she had done during the first few weeks. Ginny noticed, and patted her friend's back sympathetically. "Still not used to it?"

"Old habits die hard."

Breakfast was a relatively ordinary affair; the ceiling revealed a rare clear day, with only a few hazy clouds painted across the sky. The eggs were sufficiently cheesy to get stuck in Hermione's hair – much to Ginny's amusement – and were rather delicious; the other less troublesome foods were also tasty, befitting of the work of the Hogwarts house-elves. Few people were awake, so there was only soft chatter; Professor McGonagall sipped some orange juice from her seat, watching over the partially-awake students with sharp eyes. A few post owls swooped about, delivering mail, while other owls simply appeared to acquire some food.

"Do you ever regret it?" Ginny asked suddenly, nearly knocking over the marmalade in her haste to question her friend.

"Regret what?" Hermione inquired, looking up from the morning's _Daily Prophet_.

"Coming back to Hogwarts this year." The girl stared at her intently, awaiting the response.

Hermione paused for a moment, considering, and then answered, "No, I don't. I would've always regretted it if I hadn't finished my education. Besides, it's interesting to watch Hogwarts rebuild itself."

Ginny looked oddly relieved. "Oh, okay." She returned to her eggs without another word.

Hermione smiled. She'd known after the final battle that she would be returning to Hogwarts. Perhaps part of her wanted to hold onto the childhood the war had forced her to abandon; perhaps she just wanted to see what an ordinary school year would be like at Hogwarts; or perhaps she needed the more innocent magic to continue, to prove that it still existed in a world torn by one being's desire to dominate. Whatever the reason, she was unable to relinquish the idea of returning to Hogwarts to finish her education. _Maybe,_ she mused, twirling a strand of cheese around her fork like spaghetti, _I'm simply too attached to leave just yet. I love you, Hogwarts, and all for which you stand – and I will stay to watch you rebuild, to watch you become greater than you've ever been… a feat at which you will not fail._

Then again, there were some potential problems that could stem from this year – namely, that could stem from the separation of the trio. Hermione sighed softly, telling herself that this was for the best, that the three of them could not grow apart due to one year – they'd been bonded by years and war, and bonds such as that were not easily broken… yet the rather nasty voice in the back of her head insisted upon coming up with situations that suggested otherwise. What would happen, it mused, if your special one met a lovely young thing during his training? She could fawn all over him, feed his ego – make him forget you. It's possible – sure, he might not be that fickle, but he_ is_ a young man.

She shook her head, silencing the voice. Ron would not be so unfaithful – he was the most faithful person she knew, even if he made occasional mistakes. He wouldn't leave her, not when they'd only recently gotten each other in this new way. He could be tempted, but he would not fall; she trusted him enough to know that. Yes, there might be an outside chance – but it was far, far, far outside, out past Pluto. She knew that, yet… _Please, _she communicated, sending a telepathic message out into the whirling mass of feathers, _please… I want you to wait for me. This year will be over before we know it – stay the Ron I know, the Ron I love. I need you in my life. I hope that you won't grow tired of waiting, so please be patient. _

She looked up suddenly; something small and feathery had slammed into her. She beamed as Pigwidgeon, severely lopsided from the thickness of the letter he bore, landed in the middle of her scrambled eggs. She had no reason to worry. He would wait for her, just as she had for him.

_I miss you. I love you. I want you._

"Whoa!" Ron exclaimed in surprise, catching Hermione by the waist. "What's gotten into you?"

"Oh, nothing much," Hermione beamed, having just danced into their kitchen and spun herself into his arms. "I'm just in an excellent mood this morning. After all, it's rare that our days off coincide."

Ron grinned in reply, and captured her lips. A few moments later, he broke away and noted, "It's rare that I'm up first. Did I tire you out too much?"

"Maybe you did," she laughed, "or maybe I just stayed up to watch you sleep a bit."

"That's not remotely creepy," he snickered, stirring the eggs he'd been cooking when she'd danced into the room.

"Well, it's allowed – I _am_ your wife, after all," she smirked, flitting out of his arms to scoop Crookshanks from the top of the refrigerator. "And it's not like I've not caught you doing the exact same thing."

"I can't help it," he shrugged, his ears going red as he sprinkled an exorbitant amount of cheese onto the still-cooking scrambled eggs.

"Oh?" she smirked, raising one eyebrow as she buried her fingers in Crookshanks's ginger fur. "Why is that?"

"You know full well why," he replied, brandishing the spatula. "I happen to be madly in love with a certain woman."

"And who would that be?" she asked playfully, releasing the mewling Crookshanks. The half-kneazle, made fully aware of the couple's tendencies over the past few months, beat a hasty retreat to the living room.

"The same one who stayed up late to watch me sleep and play with my hair." He turned off the stove; the cheese would continue to melt from residual heat, and the now-cooked eggs would not burn.

"Hmm…" she smiled, stepping into his arms again. "I'll have to have a word with her. Any messages you'd like me to pass on when I do?"

"Nah, I'll tell her myself." His tone was teasing, interlaced with the emotion reserved for the woman before him.

She slipped the spatula from his limp fingers and placed it gently on the stove, careful not to break the teasing with unnecessary noise; her arms looped around his neck and her fingers found a way into his hair. "Tell me, then."

"Who said that it was you?" he laughed, softening his words. His arms found her waist.

"You did, at our wedding three months ago," she shot back, allowing him to pull her closer.

"Did I?" he mused, one hand drifting upward to rest in her hair. "I was so nervous that I barely remember any of the ceremony."

She grinned guiltily, confirming that the same had been true for her. "We have pictures, at least, and we could ask to borrow someone else's memories for a little while."

He furrowed his brow. "Memories can be removed from Pensieves?"

"Yes," she nodded, reaching up to smooth the lines, "it's a recent discovery. Wallace, the Unspeakable, mentioned it yesterday. Apparently the news will be in the _Daily Prophet_ tomorrow."

Ron shrugged. "Should you be telling me, then?"

Hermione looked up at him. "I think that it's a relatively safe confidence. Besides," she murmured conspiratorially, looking up through her lashes, "it's not like either of us will be going anywhere before the news comes out."

"And who decided that?" he whispered huskily, enjoying the light in her eyes.

"I did," she declared. "As pathetic as it may sound, I miss you far too much when we're working, and have therefore decided to keep you to myself today."

Ron laughed, taking one of her hands in his and spinning her. "If I said it was pathetic, I'd be worse. I don't think I've gone more than fifteen minutes for the past several years without you popping into my mind."

She beamed, twirling back in on his arm. "Define 'several.'"

"Alright," he rejoined, releasing her and walking out to their living room. He returned twenty-seven seconds later, flipping through the dictionary. He stopped on a certain page, and read aloud, "'Several: a number of people or things that it more than two but not many; various, or separate; relating to individual people separately.'" He looked up from the page smugly, and she burst into laughter.

"Th-Thank you," she gasped between laughs, applauding mockingly, "that was truly informative."

"Hey, you asked," he grinned, putting the dictionary on the table and moving around her to finally dish up the now-lukewarm eggs, "and I answered to the best of my abilities."

"With help," she pointed out, moving to fetch forks for them.

"With help," he conceded, placing their plates on the table and pulling out her chair for her. "Milady," he grinned, giving a little mock bow.

Hermione, recognizing this play, curtsied in response before taking her seat. "Thank you, Sir Weasley." He chuckled softly as he pushed it her chair, and then took his own. The two ate their breakfast in a comfortable silence, broken occasionally by one of them pointing out a strange word from the dictionary, which had been left on the table.

"I didn't know that 'dishy' was actually in the dictionary," Hermione noted, eyebrows raised.

"How fitting that you should find that word," Ron grinned. "It describes you perfectly."

"Flatterer," she scoffed, allowing him to flip away from the slang for 'very attractive.'

"I wouldn't say it if I weren't 'veracious,'" he beamed, pointing to the new word.

"Oh, are you, now? I remember you bending the truth more than once," she smirked. "Or are you simply being 'facetious'?"

"I kid you not, Hermione," he assured her, hand over his heart as his other lifted his egg-laden fork to his mouth. "You are truly 'delectable.'"

"Are you sure you're not confusing me with your eggs?" she smirked. "They are, simply put, 'scrumptious.'"

"Quite sure," he grinned. "Whenever I see you, I am overcome with 'basorexia.'" Having said this, he leaned across the table; she met him in the middle. "I'm simply mad for you, Hermione."

"I love you, too," she smiled, and then laughed; a piece of cheese from their scrambled eggs stretched between the two of them.

Ron grinned, caught the string of cheese with his tongue, and pulled it into his mouth. He smirked when Hermione mirrored his movements; this was reminiscent of something he'd been wanting to try since Hermione had made him watch that Muggle movie – Disney something – a few weeks back, but had been unable to attempt. This failure was mainly due to the fact that they used forks for spaghetti. Hermione, for her part, was beaming; she knew what he was doing – it was far too obvious – and found it endearing that he had fixated on a part of her childhood. They were an inch apart.

The cheese snapped, and they laughed. "Should we make spaghetti tonight, love?"

"Sure, as long as we can keep Crooks out of the kitchen. You know what happened last time," Ron sniggered; the image of a certain half-kneazle dripping in tomato sauce was too fresh in his mind not to amuse him – and an awful lot of things seemed to be amusing that morning. Perhaps that was due to the giddiness that stemmed from the two of them being together with no interruptions for several hours. They bantered some more, and finished their eggs – after the cheesy almost-kiss, they had only had a few bites remaining.

Something changed in her eyes as he stood up; it was obvious to her that he sensed it, sensed this change in her. He paused a moment, and then placed his plate back on the table, rather than taking it to the sink; she had made no move to remove hers from its spot. Their eyes met, and his changed to match hers, a grin barring nothing sliding across his face. These past few months had been wonderful for them; neither one had need, reason, nor desire to hold back anything from the other. She stood slowly, reveling in the fact that neither of them needed to be guarded; neither one needed, anymore, the control to which they had so desperately clung before their marriage. Her dressing gown slipped to the floor, and the two walked into each other's arms.

Of course, this brink of ecstasy did not save either of them from the occasional distraction. "Is that my shirt?" Ron blinked, pulling back long enough to look at her.

"It _was_ your shirt," Hermione smiled up at him, "but after you so carelessly tossed it off last night, you gave up ownership of it. I found it on the bookshelf."

"Which one?"

"Hardy-har-har," she smirked. "The one on the other side of the room. It was caught on a book on the highest shelf."

"And you could reach it?"

"I do know the summoning charm, Ronald."

"Gee, imagine that. Hermione _Weasley_," he teased, putting special emphasis on her new surname, "knowing a charm. How shocking."

"I have been told that I'm rather charming," she rejoined, slipping her arms back around his neck.

"The truth of that aside, the fact remains that you're a shirt thief."

"If you're so worried about it, take it back yourself," the atmosphere shifted again, back to what it had been only moments previously. She ran the tip of her tongue across her teeth, a little act that she had learned drove him to his breaking point.

In turn, he leaned down and growled to her, rendering her similarly mad. "I will if you beg me to."

She smirked. "I think I've had enough begging for my lifetime, thank you very much. I want you to take it off of me without my having to beg. Will a simple statement do?"

"I'll settle for that," his lips were at her neck, enjoying the sensation of her increased pulse rate; his fingers settled on the first button of the shirt, just below her collarbones.

"Then," she whispered breathlessly, using her remaining strength to pull away, "follow me." She took him by the hands and led them to the door that concealed the room in which they slept. She turned to face him, and tapped the handle once, gently, with her elbow. It swung inward.

"Yes?" he grinned, face alight with an odd mixture of juvenile mischief and feral lust. "What will you say to convince me?"

Her eyes shone in the way they did only for him, a look as wild as his own yet bright as the youngest stars. "Something simple, something that I've been saying for years in my mind, though perhaps never with quite the connotations nor implications of this time." Her hands gripped his shirtfront, pulling him down to her. What she said next, whispering against his lips, granted their desires, and drove them both into the room behind her; Crookshanks, who had been sitting in the hallway, shot down to the recently vacated kitchen as soon as those words were spoken.

"I miss you. I love you. I _want_ you."

**Claraowl: What can I say? I like scrambled eggs. **

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**Ahem. Recurring scrambled eggs aside, I hope that you enjoyed the story. I've been working on it since my last romione was posted back in January. I hope that this lived up to your expectations, and that I managed to keep them in character. **

**Please drop a review to let me know what you thought! I anxiously await your comments.**


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